


this bloody fray

by Carmarthen



Category: Rómeó és Júlia (Színház)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:08:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5127041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of going to his father's funeral mass, Tybalt picks fights with Montagues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this bloody fray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lyt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyt/gifts).



Two years ago, Tybalt’s father had died, alone in his stinking sickroom as he raged so loudly that Capulet had dragged even his grieving wife from the room, the genial mask he’d shown to the world torn away before pain and mortality. Wounds sometimes festered, the doctor had said, apologetic and cringing as he left with his purse no fatter than he’d arrived.

His father, beloved by Verona—most of Verona. He’d been friendly with the Prince, a pillar of trade, a generous donor to the Church. His sister had adored him. His grieving wife, never strong, had followed him to the grave less than a year later. A great loss to all, everyone said, cut down in his prime.

Tybalt had sat through the funeral mass and the first memorial, rigid-backed and miserable in a stiff new doublet and hose, feeling naked without more than an eating-knife to hand.

Tonight he had no stomach for it.

With half of Verona at the mass, the streets were queerly empty, golden and peaceful in the late afternoon sun. Well, if he couldn’t find a fight, there was always the option of drinking himself into oblivion, although that hadn’t gone terribly well the last time he’d tried it. Still, it would be better than spending another evening sitting in the Capulet pew while his aunt sobbed herself silly and his uncle pretended he’d liked his brother in law and Tybalt pretended he hadn’t failed his duty.

Ah—there—a flash of blue and silver, a familiar badge, voices raised too loudly on such a grave and mournful day. He didn’t recognize them, but the faces above the livery didn’t matter. They were Montagues, and that was enough.

* * *

Tybalt of the Capulets fought like a demon, the Montagues would say later in the tavern, congratulating themselves on their victory. Like three men, which made the odds not so unfair after all. But in the end they’d sent him home with his tail between his legs like the whining cur he was, with plenty of wounds to lick. Why, they’d likely be free of him for at least a fortnight!

A pity for his father, they said, that he’d not fought like that two years past.

You’d almost think he hated the old goat as much as we did, said one, and then shook his head to banish the thought.

A toast, said another, to Montague!


End file.
